


precious and fragile things

by belovedmuerto



Series: depeche mode inspired stories [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anatomy, Depeche Mode inspired, M/M, Pre-Slash, UST, fluffyish?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-16
Updated: 2011-10-16
Packaged: 2017-10-24 16:34:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/265592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/belovedmuerto/pseuds/belovedmuerto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's very hot in the flat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	precious and fragile things

**Author's Note:**

> So I wrote two thousand words of anatomy kink that doesn't have any actual kink in. Plenty of anatomy though! Yeah. Sorry about that, really.
> 
> This and its eventual sequel (which is hopefully where the smut will happen) are my number two of six for the Depeche Mode challenge that myself and lovely [theplatonicnonyeah](http://archiveofourown.org/users/theplatonicnonyeah/pseuds/theplatonicnonyeah) are doing.

John wakes to the sound of rain.

It feels as though it’s been raining forever, unceasing pouring water from the sky. Cold seems to seep around every corner, like the fog that cannot form in this downpour. It has been raining for two solid weeks, solid sheets of water, never ceasing, soaking anyone who so much as sets foot outside, brolly or no.

John longs for March, for clear skies and milder weather. For the sun.

 _Maybe I can get Sherlock to rig a light box for me._ It seems like the sort of thing Sherlock might be able to do, amidst his insane experiments.

On the other hand, if it turns out like the furnace has, John might end up with singed hair and burns on his face. The furnace had been on the fritz. The furnace is still on the fritz, actually, only the problem is different now.

Now, it’s hot.

**

John showers mostly to cool himself off. Waking up covered in a fine film of sweat is never pleasant. The thought of clothing is abhorrent, and he has nothing on today and no desire to go out in the rain, so he only drags on an old pair of scrubs, worn thin and cooler for it.

Sherlock is on the sofa in the lounge when he pads downstairs barefoot, apparently asleep. He’s sprawled a bit more carelessly than usual, arms flung over his head, in naught but a thin t-shirt and pajama pants that look silky smooth even from across the room. His hair is a riot above his face, damp curls on his forehead and neck, and there are circles under his eyes; he’s just finished a case and hasn’t slept in two days, by John’s estimation.

John tries not to look too hard as he goes by into the kitchen to put the kettle on. Hot it may be in here, but that’s not going to stop him from having his morning cup of tea.

**

John is staring out the window over the sink, sipping at his first, perfect cup of tea when he hears Sherlock walk up behind him. He’s fairly certain that he only heard Sherlock because Sherlock wanted him to; he’s already noticed that Sherlock tends to run silent, appearing and disappearing without so much as a rustle of clothing.

John doesn’t look over his shoulder at his flatmate, but he can feel him standing there, close enough that John can feel his body heat.

Belatedly, John realizes that Sherlock has never seen his ruined shoulder. Curiosity, then. It’s not normally something he would want to discuss, or let anyone look at, but it’s too damn hot in the flat for him to contemplate more clothing, so he’ll deal with Sherlock’s curiosity instead. Better now than later, John supposes.

“May I?” Sherlock murmurs, and John very nearly laughs. He can’t think of a single time he’s heard his flatmate ask permission for anything since he moved in a month ago. And now he is.

John nods. A moment later, Sherlock’s hand is on his shoulder. His good shoulder, which surprises John more than a bit. He stands still, stays quiet, relaxes his shoulders, puts his tea down on the worktop and steps into parade rest, except to let his arms hang at his sides.

Sherlock stands close behind him--the man does not understand the concept of personal space. Or else he enjoys putting people at unease. After a moment, his hand moves, brushing along John’s shoulder.

John feels fingers against the back of his head, at the top of his spine.

“Occipital,” Sherlock murmurs, barely audible. “Cervical vertebrae; C1 through C7.” Sherlock’s fingers alight along John’s spine as he counts John’s vertebral bones, ticks off his spine.

“Thoracic vertebrae; T1 through T12. Lumbar vertebrae; L1 through L5.” His fingers stop in the small dimples in John’s skin on either side of the base of his spine. “Sacrum, from the Latin, for sacred. Itself a translation of the Greek _hieron_ ; sacred or strong bone. S1 through S5. Fused.”

Sherlock’s fingers spread from his sacrum out along his hip, just over the line of John’s scrubs, just above his arse. “Iliac crest.”

John wonders if Sherlock is mapping him. He wonders if Sherlock has never had living tissue to put his hands on, only corpses, and if the warmth of a living body is surprising to him. It would nearly make sense, it’s hard to map one’s own back. John takes a deep breath and sighs it out again, lets himself enjoy the feel of Sherlock’s warm hands on his skin, the breath that puffs against his shoulder as Sherlock murmurs the names of his bones as he traces them.

Those long fingers trace back up John’s back, alight on his shoulder blades. “Scapulae.”

Sherlock’s fingertips brush back up his neck and along John’s occipital ridge. A gentle press, on either side of John’s spine. “Trapezius attaches here.” He traces the outlines of John’s traps, three quarters of the way down John’s back. “You hold a lot of tension here.”

“I know,” John murmurs in reply, and his voice comes out far rougher than he’d intended.

Returning to John’s neck, Sherlock’s index fingers settle on either side of his spine again. “The erector spinae muscles.” He starts to trace down John’s spine, too light, and John shivers.

“Harder.” John clears the lump from his throat. “Harder, use your knuckles; you’ll be able to feel the vertebral notches, where the attachments are.”

Sherlock makes an approving sound in his throat, starts again, using his knuckles. John braces himself against the worktop.

“Go slow,” John murmurs. He shudders as Sherlock obeys. It feels wonderful, sending ripples of relaxation and pleasure all along John’s back. He holds most of his tension in various places along his back, and the hardest to get at is the stress that settles in the deeper muscles. He can’t afford regular massage to help with that, either.

Sherlock spreads his hands along the small of John’s back, again to either side of John’s spine. “Quadratus lumborum, too deep to palpate.”

“Alas,” John agrees. He’s only ever had one massage where the person giving it was able to actually hook and release his QL, and he doesn’t believe he’s ever been that relaxed again.

Sherlock’s hands move up, spreading wide over his ribs. “The eleventh and twelfth ribs are floating ribs. Latissimus dorsi is the largest muscle of the back. Well-defined.”

Sherlock fits his fingers into the faint grooves of John’s ribs. “Intercostals.”

John stands still, listening to his flatmate, wondering if Sherlock realizes he’s reciting all these things aloud. It’s oddly soothing.

Sherlock’s hands don’t leave John’s back, though his touch is gentle. He presses them upright between John’s spine and his scapulae. “The rhomboids are below the trapezius muscles and attach along the scapulae. They’re like wings.”

John has never heard anything so whimsical come from Sherlock. He smiles at his own reflection in the window. Sherlock looks up briefly, one side of his mouth quirked up in amusement at his own statement. He walks his fingers up to the spot where John’s neck meets his shoulders. He presses gently into the spot. “Levator scapulae.”

John drops his head forward. He’s breathing too fast, and his heart is pounding.  
He wonders if this is affecting Sherlock in anything even remotely like the way it’s affecting him; this cataloging is quite possibly the most intimate touch he’s ever received, despite the fact it somehow doesn’t feel even remotely sexual in nature.

Not that it couldn’t be. Maybe it is, for Sherlock. John doesn’t know. Doesn’t care.

Finally, Sherlock’s attention alights on John’s scarred shoulder. It looks much worse from the back than from the front. The scarring spreads over his scapula and almost touches his spine.

Sherlock traces its outlines with a fingertip, almost too light for John to feel. He breathes gently over John’s skin, and John does feel that. It raises goosebumps along his arms and up his neck. Sherlock soothes that reaction by laying both his hands on John’s shoulders.

With the same sort of precision that seems to inhabit all of Sherlock’s actions, he gathers John’s two trapezius muscles between the heels of his hands and his ridiculously long fingers, and squeezes. The angle isn’t quite right to get a really good grip on them, or the sort of pressure that it takes to truly get the muscles to reset themselves, but Sherlock slowly squeezes, hard, holding the pressure for long moments.

John takes a deep breath, breathing into and through Sherlock’s grip as best he can. When Sherlock lets go, he rolls his shoulders. It helps.

Sherlock’s hand ghosts down his right arm, re-raising the goosebumps that had just settled. With two fingers on the underside of John’s wrist, he lifts. He takes note of John’s pulse, John can practically hear him counting in his head.

Sherlock knows John’s resting vitals; John hadn’t seen any harm in letting Sherlock take note of them all, but he’s regretting it at the moment, as his pulse races and his breath skips. John holds his arm slightly raised as Sherlock gives it nearly the same attention as he’d given John’s back.

“Humerus,” he murmurs, skimming over John’s shoulder and down to his elbow.

“Lateral and medial epicondyles.” Sherlock pokes at the sharp edges of bone that form the elbow. “Radius and ulna.”

He seems utterly fascinated by John’s arm, entirely engrossed. With one hand at his elbow and the other lightly around John’s wrist, Sherlock rotates his forearm back and forth. “The radius moves; the ulna is stationary.”

After a few long moments of this, Sherlock returns to his shoulder, letting John’s arm fall back to his side. “Deltoids,” he murmurs, lips nearly against John’s skin. Then, “biceps, triceps.” Sherlock’s fingers dance across John’s elbow again. “Brachioradialis.”

Taking John’s wrist again, Sherlock tugs his arm up, bends his head over to concentrate on outlining John’s tendons and the veins in his wrists. He doesn’t name the myriad tiny muscles that make the use of one’s hand possible, but John thinks each one in turn as Sherlock’s fingers brush over them.

Sherlock’s hand stays at his wrist, and John’s eyes fall shut when Sherlock’s attention falls to his hand. He has to concentrate very hard on not melting into a puddle at Sherlock’s feet.

John almost manages to keep his breath even.

His world narrows down to the feel of Sherlock tracing his fingers, outlining his knuckles, his nails, the lines on his palm.

He manages to briefly think it’s a good thing he’d trained himself, his body to be able to stand in parade rest for hours without thought, otherwise he’s pretty sure he’d have fallen over by now. And wouldn’t Sherlock get a kick out of that, out of knowing he’d made John swoon.

Long minutes pass as Sherlock memorizes his hand, the callouses, the faint scar from slide bite, the tiny freckle on his palm, just under his middle finger. John’s skin goes sensitive, then oversensitive, and he loses the ability to keep his breath steady.

Eventually, he opens his eyes, looking down his arm and then up, at Sherlock. Sherlock is bent over his hand, all of his daunting focus on John. It’s a heady feeling. John watches Sherlock studying him, and it’s fascinating.

John isn’t sure how long it is before Sherlock realizes that John is watching him and looks up, meets John’s eyes through still sweat-damp curls.

Oh, that’s right. It’s hot in the flat. It’s hot in the flat because Sherlock is hell on furnaces and John doesn’t like wearing clothes when it feels like spring in the desert and that’s what got them here.

Sherlock’s breath has gone a bit ragged around the edges as well, John can hear it. John almost misses the small smile that quirks Sherlock’s lips before he turns his attention momentarily back to John’s hand. He traces over the lines on John’s palm one last time, drops a single brief kiss at the base of John’s thumb, and releases his hand, straightening and taking a small step back.

 _Oh, and isn’t that promising? _Something inside John stretches and unfurls slowly, expectantly.__

Sherlock watches him with those pale, uncanny eyes, and John has been observed enough already by Sherlock Holmes that he knows that the man is waiting for his reaction. Waiting for the ‘piss off‘ that he still hasn’t heard from John.

The one he never will hear from John, if John has any say in the matter.

John returns his gaze silently, steadily.

“Thank you, John,” Sherlock murmurs after a few long moments. His mouth quirks in a half-smile.

John returns it easily. “You’re welcome.”

**Author's Note:**

> For those of you who are as obsessive about this sort of thing as I am: yes, I left out lots of muscles, in the back and in the forearm. This would've gone on forever had I named every last one of them. Which I can't do without reference anymore anyway.


End file.
